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Samsung has blown us all away with the release of its Virtual Reality Headset. For only one hundred dollars, you can strap your smart phone an inch away from your eyes, and be launched into alternate dimensions.

You could easily steal this woman’s wallet.

I went ahead and invented the next generation of this technology. For two hundred bucks, I’ll lead you into a forest, where you can pick out any old stump you want. For an extra fifty, I’ll provide an axe and let you chop down a tree of your choosing.

And for the low low price of three hundred dollars, I will bring you to a store, point you in the direction of the furniture department, and allow you to browse through stools and chairs, any of which you can easily purchase.

Then we’ll go to your house, and I will help you place your new Virtual Reality Ass Holder a foot in front of your television. After that, you can sit on it, and lean forward until your nose is nearly touching the screen. Depending on what kind of TV you have, the world in front of you could be over six feet long! Just compare that to the tiny screen of your smart phone. Congratulations, you are now experiencing a digital life separate from your own depressing, tortured existence, and you don’t need to have a thing strapped to your head.

There are holidays going on this month. Kwanzaa, Hanukah, New Year’s Eve, Festivus, the winter solstice, Bodhi Day, and probably the biggest one, the birth of Philip K. Dick. Not much else. Unless you want to count the birth of Philip K. Dick’s twin sister, whose tragic passing at the age of six weeks provided a tremendous influence on the writing of her surviving brother.

As you make your way through this celebration-stuffed month, you may come across certain folks that get angry if you don’t wish them a ‘happy’ whatever holiday they celebrate, whether it’s Boxing Day or the anniversary of Pearl Harbor. And this is your fault, because it is December, after all, and if you are unable to take one look at a person and not know what holiday greeting they wish to receive, then, well, why are we even here.

So why not do this: wish people a ‘happy’ whatever is you enjoy, and don’t be mad if they wish you a ‘happy’ something else in return. After all, you will both be wishing each other happiness. Be happy about that. However, if someone becomes hostile and says ‘death to Iowa for growing corn instead of mangos, because we need mangos for National Fruitcake Day on December 27th’ just play it cool, and politely inform them that Iowa doesn’t have the proper terroirto support a bountiful mango harvest. Then maybe share a mango and read about corn together on the internet. You are now friends with someone who wanted to kill you five minutes ago.

I have somehow avoided all of this, even though I have been wishing people my religion’s greeting for some time now (it should be noted that I have recently converted from Discordianism to Pastafarianism). In my new belief system, every Friday is considered a holiday. I’ve been wishing people of all religions a ‘Happy Friday’ for months now, and no one has been offended. It seems that the loving, noodly appendage of our Flying Spaghetti Monster has reached down and wiped away the hate among people who believe some days are better than others, for not one person has corrected me with something to the effect of “Not everyone celebrates Fridays. You should really just wish people happy days.” So maybe people are just more accepting of Pastafarianism, or the key is to dwell in particulars when wishing someone ‘happy something,’ instead of cramming all holidays together into one giant fruitcake of a greeting. I don’t know.

The lesson of this whole thing is to just be happy, dammit. And also, instantly know the beliefs of everyone you come into contact with and accommodate them accordingly.

Like this:

Sometimes you find yourself in an establishment, wondering about the strange trail people took to end up working there. That’s why I asked the guy that recently collected a sample of my urine how he wound up analyzing pee for a living.

Me: You sit in this room all day and wait for people to urinate.

Urine Collector: Yes, I do.

Me: So how does a guy get started in the urinalysis biz? Were you interested in urine as a child?

UC: Obsessed. I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t thinking about urine—drawing pictures of it, bringing it to show-and-tell, collecting samples from my siblings and our pets. I couldn’t get enough of the stuff.

Me: Describe your ‘Eureka!’ moment, the time when you said to yourself, ‘This is what I want to do with my life. I want to collect piss in small plastic containers.’

UC: I was in fifth grade. By that time, I was always lurking in the restroom, because I enjoyed urinary environs—human friends didn’t interest me—and I would take in the smells, the sounds. I have a poem I wrote that day. Allow me to read it. (the room goes black, except for a single spotlight that shines down on The Urine Collector, who is resting on a stool, smoking a cigarette, and snapping a slow beat)

Behold now, these ancient echoes that reverberate as splashes of flaxen liquid strike the alabaster surface of a urinal!

Envelop me, O ethereal, pissy mist that floats over toilet bowls both old and new!

Bladders From Above, bless us with thy holy golden rain, and smite those that conspire to stop thine rivulets!

Me: That didn’t rhyme.

UC: Expressions of passion rarely do.

Me: So are you passionate about poetry too? Did you ever think about writing as a career?

UC: No. Writers don’t get to analyze urine.

Me: Of course they don’t. Be honest with this next question. Can you tell from a person’s looks if they are going to test positive for drugs? Like if some guy with dreadlocks wearing a Phish T-shirt walks in, do you just say to him ‘Nope. No way. Don’t waste my time. Get the hell out of here,’ or is that frowned upon?

UC: The brotherhood of People Interested in Scrutinizing Sewage (P.I.S.S.) requires us to take an oath of equality. Every person that comes through our door receives a cup, regardless of weight, ugliness, hairiness, whatever. Having said that, words like ‘stoked’ are a tip off, and spotting even the smallest traces of tie-dye on a garment raise red flags as well. Whiffs of patchouli will also garner special attention. In those cases, I personally get in real close and watch the urine come out of the urethra.

Me: That seems like a good place to end this. Thank you.

UC: No, thank you (he wraps both his hands around the container, like he’s holding a cup of hot cocoa, closes his eyes and sniffs deeply, taking in the aromatics and other unseen nuances that only a seasoned expert can detect).

Like this:

There are perks to being a blogger. We have this unique platform that enables us to let our voices be heard, and sometimes a guy in suit from something called Big Medicine approaches you with a sack covered in dollar signs saying that he’d like you to talk about the greatest drug for high blood pressure ever created, and you tell him you’ll never sell out, and then he shows you that there’s actually money in the sack, so you say you’ll take the offer.

Even though that happened, it had no influence over my decision to talk to you today about Fluvalipitorbrate™, the best boner medicine to hit the market in years.

You see, sometimes in order to lower your cholesterol, or whatever this stuff does, you need to make sacrifices, like only having one functioning kidney. You have two for a reason, so it’s not much of a sacrifice anyways. And—this is according to Big Medicine—comas brought on by Fluvalipitorbrate™ are actually healthy, because it gives your body a chance to rest and recover from the ulcers and painful full-body burning sensations that led to the coma in the first place. Plus, you won’t be conscious for the bloody diarrhea. Sounds like Fluvalipitorbrate™ is doing you a solid there.

When you come out of the coma, which 65% of people do, you’re going to have some suicidal thoughts. But that’s only because you’re mad at yourself for not taking Fluvalipitorbrate™ years ago, when it was still causing men to grow massive breasts. You’ll cheer up when they give you a jar full of your teeth and then find that all the hair on your body has fallen off, which will help you swim very fast, once your muscles grow back.

Then you’re on the home stretch to a major testosterone boost, which is what this drug is all about. After you fight off the minor bouts with bi-polar disorder, diabetes, necrotizing fasciitis, and halitosis, you can tell all your friends (through sign language, if you still have lockjaw) about Fluvalipitorbrate™ and how it changed your life.

For more info, ads for Fluvalipitorbrate™ can be found in Men’s Health magazine, or on our infomercial that airs from 3-4 every Thursday morning (it’s the one with happy men golfing and a voiceover talking extremely fast about internal bleeding and bones turning to dust).

Like this:

Some jerk, played by Jack Black, or whoever, somehow gains the ability to see the true inner self of people he encounters. Maybe we could get Tony Robbins or Doctor Oz to hypnotize him to make this possible. Hell, he could just get struck by lightning instead. That would be a lot easier, plus I feel like Doctor Oz would show up on set with quinoa salad to share with everyone, and then give some pitch about a new weight loss drug he just invested in. It would set back the schedule. I run a tight set. I’m also the director now. Writer-director.

Back on track. And by the way, the main guy doesn’t have to be Jack Black, maybe Neil Patrick Harris would be interested, or we could bring back some broke television star from the ’80’s that probably hasn’t tasted hot food in a while. So, this main character meets a really hot chick that doesn’t seem to understand why our main man is interested in her.

We fill in the middle with enough low grade bathroom humor to get the running time up to 90 minutes, then at the end, the Shyamalanian twist comes: the hot chick was the person’s inner self, remember, and when Jack Black or Michael Newman comes out of his altered state, we find that the person he was attracted to was a flamboyant junior high kid. Don’t worry, they didn’t get it on or anything. The other people in the film notice that the guy is acting really creepy around this kid, so they call the police.

The guy goes to jail, I’m thinking Michael Newman is my main choice now, because I’m the producer too. Writing, directing, producing. I do a lot of stuff. While in prison, the guy somehow becomes hypnotized again, and finds true love, this time with a legal adult, maybe a morbidly obese Hawaiian man, or whatever juxtaposition would be funny in this scenario. Who would look funny as Michael Newman’s boyfriend? I’ll have to look through some headshots. Or maybe I’ll just play the main guy, because I also act. I’m an actor that writes and directs and produces. And then the guy I fall in love with in prison is actually me, because by this point I play everyone in the movie.

The thing is, I don’t really want to get involved in the whole Hollywood-Industrial complex, so in order to get this thing made, it’s all going to have to take place in my spare bedroom, with no cameras, because I don’t like seeing videos of myself. Actually, I’ll probably just sit on the couch and imagine all this happening, then the second Shyamalanian twist will flop out: I find out that I am actually M. Night Shyamalan, or he is me. Haven’t thought that out yet.

“We cannot ban guns in this country because of a few bad apples. But we can ban an entire religion.” —The actor currently portraying Donald Trump

August 6, 2015—A Republican presidential debate occurs the same night as Jon Stewart’s final Daily Show. Backstage after the debate in Cleveland, Chris Christie, turning his nose up at the provided fruit trays, pulls a hoagie from his pocket. The toppings accidentally spill onto the floor. Christie lures Donald Trump to a dark corner and places him inside the hoagie.

“AHHH. Donald Trump is turning into poop inside my body right now.”

Chris Christie eats a Donald Trump hoagie as the rest of the candidates watch. No one intervenes.

August 7-present—Donald Trump continues his presidential campaign. How is this possible if he was eaten and turned into fecal matter by Chris Christie?

August 6, moments after Chris Christie has licked the last drops of Trump juice from his fingers—Realizing they are all accomplices, the candidates settle on the following plan: they will hire Jon Stewart, who now has free time galore, to play Donald Trump. If there is one thing they all agree on, it is that Trump should be out of the race. Stewart will alienate voters by simply doing and saying things that Donald Trump would say and do, and as his popularity in the polls inevitably declines, he’ll drop out of his candidacy, eventually fading from public memory.

The present—Jon Stewart, in his Trump disguise, is the most popular Republican candidate.